That Thing Called a Heart
by Canadianjudy
Summary: Does the old curmudgeon of a butler really have a heart? Many don't think so. But they haven't seen all sides of the man, have they? The idea for this came from a line - 'I saw the heart you hide so well' - from Barbra Streisand's "Why Did I Choose You?" Csota mentioned the lyrics awhile back in her Chelsie writings and the line stuck with me.


That Thing Called a Heart

He did have one. Really, he did. Many wondered. Most doubted. They snickered behind his back. Made fun of him. Called him all manner of names, 'heartless' being the most common. Laughed at him. But never to his face. Rolled their eyes. Opinions were never uttered aloud, at least not in his presence. But people talked. In the boot room. Outside. In the kitchen. In the laundry room. Upstairs. Downstairs. In the servants' quarters. Even on the way to and from Sunday Service.

He just couldn't catch a break. Sure, he had shown mercy to a few, some would say. They would hear kind words spoken about Lady Mary or in defense of a family member, but they were looked upon as words of favoritism and loyalty rather than genuine kindness.

Despite the occasional words of benevolence and actions of charity on his part, most believed that he had no feeling. No soul. No compassion. Most certainly not a heart. Just a booming, pompous, imperious voice.

He ran a tight ship. And he was fair. At least that was Mr. Barrow's summation of him. But he, and most others, would go no farther than that in their praise of the Abbey's butler.

So many derogatory terms thrown about, usually in hushed whispers. But 'heartless'? Such a harsh term. A heartless term, to be honest.

Even those who disagreed, those who had indeed witnessed his sincerity and mercy, those who knew that somewhere deep down he did have a heart, were wont to speak up in his defense when others were railing against him, against the cantankerous and mean who-does-he-think-he-is tyrant of a butler.

Perhaps they didn't want others to know that they, at one time, had been the recipient of his 'generosity of spirit'. Knowing how rarely his compassion was meted out, they didn't want others to know that, at some point, they had earned a small piece of his favor.

It was easier to go along with the grumblings of the crowd. Or just remain silent, which many did. Those who had been on the receiving end of his kindness filed his rare words of praise and encouragement away for safekeeping. Those tucked away compliments were invaluable when one was found once again in his line of fire. So it did exist. His heart, that is. But most assumed it didn't amount to much.

And who exactly were those who had been graced with his favor, who had received, at one time or another, those rare gentle words and loving support from him? He had no bias, upstairs or downstairs. His kindness and usually covert displays of concern and encouragement were spread among both the family and his fellow servants.

Many were privy to brief glimpses into his humanity. Into his teeny, tiny storehouse of feelings, as someone upstairs had put it. The entire downstairs staff, gathered in the kitchen in their pajamas, felt his brokenness as he informed them of Lady Sybil's death. Many were impressed when he offered praise for Branson's tirade against his ill-mannered brother. Some remembered his kind words in defense of Mr. Bates.

Though a few had borne witness to these rare snippets of the butler's empathy and benevolence toward others, most were clueless regarding the actual wellspring of softheartedness in him. Most viewed these moments of empathy and sympathy as a rarity, to say the least.

But had they been a fly on the wall, had they been tucked behind the draperies or ensconced safely out of sight, they would have witnessed some beautiful moments of compassion on the butler's part.

For instance, did anyone see when Lady Sybil, as a young girl, fell at the bottom of the stairs leading into the kitchen? Did anyone see when he picked her up, pretended to dust her off and then carried her to his pantry, only to settle her gently in his large chair and calm her with a peppermint stick? Did he chastise her, as he well could have, for running so quickly down the stairs and perhaps even being where she shouldn't have been? No.

Did anyone see when Daisy burst into tears, sitting alone in the servants' hall with Miss Bunting's books spread out about her? Did anyone see when he hurried in, well past midnight, to see what was the matter? Did anyone see, or hear, when he sat with her for a bit, made her some tea and gave her some comforting words? - words that did not come easily, certainly, for he was not a fan of Miss Bunting and all of Daisy's 'learning'. No. He did, however, have a special spot in his heart for this young girl, though he kept those feelings secreted away. One must not play favorites among the staff, after all.

And did anyone see him standing just inside his pantry when Thomas cut off William's words and asked Daisy if she would fancy going to the fair with him? No, they didn't. Nor could he see their faces. He couldn't see the crushed look in William's eyes or the spiteful one on Thomas's face. But he heard. And he knew. He didn't intervene. He did, however, share a few kind words with William later that evening. Words that didn't entirely cheer up the young lad, but the fact that his superior took the time with him truly touched the young man's heart.

And, yes, most of the downstairs were present when he offered the soon-to-be Mrs. Mason his arm and walked her up the stairs to William's bedside. But did anyone standing in the watching crowd at the foot of the bed notice his strained face and crushed heart? He knew the inevitable was fast approaching. He knew that, any moment now, the young bride would be a widow. It almost broke him to watch.

Did anyone see as he made sure he was the last of the group to leave the ceremony only so he could reach out and take William's hand and then brush his hand along Daisy's shoulder, before quietly joining the others? No. Truth be told, he hadn't intended to stop and exchange touches. He merely needed time. Time to walk back downstairs by himself. Time to process what he just witnessed, before returning to butler-mode. But this quick interaction with the new couple just needed to happen. He was drawn to do it. He couldn't explain it. And it somehow touched all three of them deeply.

Was anyone present when he sat across from Mrs. Patmore in the kitchen, took her hands in his and gently encouraged her to tell him what had happened? Did anyone hear their conversation or see the way he maintained eye contact and convinced her that she need not be alone in her struggle? Some, maybe. Only the eavesdroppers. He had Mrs. Hughes escort everyone out before he sat across from the distraught cook. He knew that an audience was the last thing either of them needed at a moment like this. Those lurking in the hallway could imagine the conversation, but no one truly heard his words of kindness and sympathy. Did they imagine him to be as gentle and patient as he was? Probably not.

When he was restless in bed one night, with sleep coming in fits and starts, did anyone see him finally rise, tie up his bathrobe and make his way down to see Matthew, barely alive on his hospital cot? There, in the middle of the night, he sat on the edge of the cot, talking with Mr. Crawley. Whether or not the battered young man could hear him was unknown to him, but he needed to share what was on his heart with the boy. Words spoken that night were heard by no one save him and, perhaps, Matthew. The wounded man never brought up the conversation, and so it was very possible that he never heard the words the butler shared with him that night. Lady Sybil (holding down the night shift, in her duty as Nurse Crawley) saw her dear butler come in and approach Matthew's bed. She and he exchanged glances, but no words were spoken. She knew he had come. Maybe Matthew knew. But no one ever spoke of it again.

What about the exchange he had with Mr. Lang up in the servants' quarters? Did anyone else hear the words of apology from him as he told Lang that he should have recognized that he was not ready for service? "WE let YOU down." It was no fault of Mr. Lang's. And did anyone hear the words he shared about his own cousin coming back from the war, experiencing the same nightmares that had wracked Mr. Lang nightly? No. Not even Mrs. Hughes had been made privy to the handful of letters he'd received from his cousin detailing the hell that he had lived through on the front.

And what of the countless times he comforted Lady Mary, times that began in her childhood? Did anyone witness the conversation between the two when wee Lady Mary decided that it would be best if she ran away from home? Did anyone witness the kiss placed to the butler's cheek in full payment of a loan from him to her? No. But it did warm the heart of the housekeeper when the butler finally shared the account of that evening long ago with her.

And what about as she grew older? Did anyone take notice of the times she climbed out of bed, escaped nanny's attention and stole down to his pantry for comfort late at night? His displays of kindness, compassion and love towards the eldest Crawley daughter were not subject to an age limit. What about when she was vexed over her relationship with Matthew and he strode up the hill during the garden party to hug and encourage her? Some may have seen. Some may not. No matter. That didn't stop him.

And what about when she came down to him late one night, half a year after her beloved Matthew had been killed, only to receive unconditional love and support from him, support that he gave her freely regardless of being spurned by her earlier? No matter that she had so recently insulted him, claiming that he had no right to share his opinions as he did with her. She meant the world to him and he was not going to let a few harsh words, spoken in the throes of despair, stop him from loving her. Or holding her. Or encouraging her. Was anyone else privy to most of those encounters? No.

Did anyone hear him admonish Lady Mary, as he lay recuperating in his bed, to tell Mr. Crawley what was in her heart so she would not regret it all her life long should he be killed during his war service and never return? It was advice that he gave because he was reminded of the time that he almost lost his Mrs. Hughes to Joe Burns. Of that night when time seemed suspended as he awaited her answer to his, "And you accepted?" As his heart – yes, that thing called a heart – was about to shatter into smithereens. All because, in part, he could not tell her what was in his own heart.

Did anyone see his tears, late at night, in his pantry, as he finally connected the dots of conversations and comments and realized that Miss Marigold was indeed Lady Edith's daughter? And that, like so many before her, she would grow up with the love and nurture of only one parent? No.

Did anyone see him scoop up young Miss Sybbie as she sobbed into his neck? Did anyone even know that Nanny was ill and he had volunteered a shift in the nursery to look after, as Mrs. Hughes called them, the wee bairns? Did anyone see him stroke circles onto Miss Sybbie's back and hum a lullaby softly into her ear, in an attempt to calm her? What about his tears that he let fall freely when Miss Sybbie sobbed over and over into his chest, "I want a mummy, too. George has a mummy. Why can't I have a mummy?" No.

Did anyone see him toss and turn for hours in his bed, knowing how soon the morning would arrive and how little sleep he would have to face the day, all because he could not shake the image of a broken Anna from his mind? He wasn't supposed to know. He surely couldn't actually say anything to her. But the words were there. He knew what he wanted to say. But this was a time, like so many others, that he would have to keep his words to himself. For now, at least. Perhaps he would be given an opportunity at a later date to say something to her. He hoped that would be the case, as she did hold a special spot in his heart.

There were many other instances that were both witnessed and not, instances that involved those above stairs, those below stairs and even others outside of the Abbey.

Three others were on hand to see Charlie Grigg off on the train but most doubted the butler had it in his heart to make amends with the man before he left. The handshake between him and his former stage partner spoke volumes of how much he had struggled internally and how far he had come in his thoughts and feelings regarding their broken relationship. She was right, that housekeeper of his. Best to stitch up the wound, she had said, and let it heal.

And what about the Dowager Countess? Did anyone overhear the few words that were exchanged between the two when she took his hand upon arriving at the house following Lady Sybil's death? Most likely not. But even had words not been exchanged, the actions and glances alone revealed the hearts of these two for each other –the depth of feelings never acknowledged outwardly, but most definitely understood between them. They had walked many rocky roads together, these two, over the years.

Did anyone hear the exchange held with his Lordship's valet, Mr. Bates? Did anyone hear the concern in the butler's words when he voiced aloud to Mr. Bates that he hoped he hadn't been viewed as treating him unfairly? No matter their differences, there was something about Mr. Bates, something that eventually earned and held the respect of the butler for a long time to come.

Did anyone overhear the exchange between Lord Grantham and his butler as His Lordship was getting in the car one day, the exchange regarding the recovering Mr. Barrow staying on at the Abbey a bit longer? No. The butler told Lord Grantham that he didn't credit Thomas with having any feelings. He was wrong for thinking of him as a man without a heart, he said.

How those bitter and unfeeling thoughts he harbored toward Mr. Barrow all those years tugged on his conscience. How differently, he realized, he could have treated the young man over the years. How differently he should have treated him. Knowing that his constant derogatory and crushing words contributed to the butler's near-suicide caused the man many a sleepless night. Perhaps there would be kinder, more conciliatory words in the future. He would try.

Did anyone else overhear the conversation he had with Mrs. Hughes when she gave the butler a framed picture of Alice, the girl he wanted to marry so much, he 'could taste it'? No. No one heard her tell him it was to remind himself that he once had a heart. And that the others could be reassured that he belonged to the human race.

So Mrs. Hughes knew he had a heart. A few who had been recipients of his compassion and grace over the years knew it, also. But the others? They were not convinced. A few had the rare experience of a few generous words from the butler, but many only knew his wrath, his gruffness and his demand for exacting standards, no matter the cost.

And so, in all fairness, it was a reasonable assumption from many that he, indeed, had no heart. The proof is in the pudding, as they say. Most had never witnessed it, so how could it be?

Well, time provides many things, one of them being the opportunity for growth. He got there in the end. He learned to put words to his feelings and to share those words with others. It wasn't easy; the journey was long and arduous, but how wonderful the rewards. He began to be seen as more than the stuffy old curmudgeon of a butler.

Slowly and, at times, painfully, the housekeeper reached down into that thing called a heart and brought its contents to the surface. She brought words out of it. She showed him the joy to be had in sharing those words with others. She brought feelings out of it. She brought emotions out of it. She brought touches out of it. She brought his love for her, and others, out of it.

So, yes, he did have a thing called a heart, after all. And what he did with it and the great things that came from it brought much joy to those around him.

In the end, word has it that she stole his heart away. He freely admitted it. But perhaps she didn't really steal it. Charles Carson prefers to think that he shares it with her. With his Elsie. And she shares hers with him.

And isn't that what hearts are for?


End file.
